


Baby, I Ain't Ever Found Anyone Like You

by maroon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Bottom Tony Stark, F/F, M/M, POV Outsider, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 16:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14675184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroon/pseuds/maroon
Summary: Five times people thought Tony and Bucky were dating different people, one time people thought Bucky and Tony were dating but weren’t, and one time people finally got it right.





	Baby, I Ain't Ever Found Anyone Like You

**Author's Note:**

> hello ! mcdonald's coffee is great. do people even read author's notes? anyways, hello, all faults in this fic is mine. also, come join me [@maroonedstark](https://twitter.com/maroonedstark) lets make buckytony rise yall
> 
> leave me some yummy concrit

**ONE: Natasha Romanova.**

 

Here’s the scoop: Natasha Alianova Romanova _,_ for all the men she seduces and has been seen leaving with, is a devout lesbian. But of course, she keeps her cards close and her sexuality behind closed doors, because her job will and does always come first.

 

Aside from random theories and blurry pictures of a small redhead walking around hand-in-hand with what seems to be the strawberry blonde C.E.O. of Stark Industries, there’s no proof of Natasha’s apparent lesbianism. But maybe only point three percent of the population even dares to think about that tidbit, so when Natasha was pictured with James Buchanan Barnes’ arm around her waist after a particularly brutal fight with an eleven foot tall rabid dog-dragon hybrid from one of Thor’s many scorned lovers, it hit the airways and internet so fast it left all of them reeling.

 

Here’s another scoop: James Buchanan Barnes, for all the history that they shared, will be nothing more than a pseudo-sibling to her. Part two of that scoop is: that’s _scary_ to think about. Her and Barnes? Oh, Jesus.

 

But again, maybe three percent of the population knows that. At least, the young woman, whose name is Aileen Wiesenbauer, sitting in the reception hall doesn’t know that, so she takes tons of pictures as she waits for her interview in the lower floors of the Avengers tower, which is, by all intents and purposes, still used as Stark Industries R&D, and if she hits the jackpot, she’s going to be _breathing_ the same air as the Avengers. Which sounds creepy, but almost everything fans do now is creepy. She’s not about to go FBI and stalk them to their houses real late at night. She did that once, and she was thirteen. Obviously, she knows better now.

 

Natasha smiles up at Bucky Barnes and taps his shoulder, and the taller man bends down, letting her whisper into his ear. Her smile is small, sexy, and dangerous, just like it always is, and Aileen totally _loves_ it. They look so hot together— oh my god, this will be the best fucking thing to happen to her tumblr account. Or it can just stay in the little shrine she’d built in her cabinet.

 

Look: Aileen’s a simple girl. She sees a beautiful man with a beautiful woman, ergo, she likes what she sees, ergo, it makes her happy. Follows it for days on end, maybe. Watches YouTube videos and makes long-worded rants about how it’s totally real. Maybe she’s got a Natasha/Bucky manifesto in her Livejournal, no one will ever know. Except for her three friends on twitter, maybe.

 

She lifts up her phone again, and making sure the flash isn’t on, she takes a burst photo, and then a live one, and then she puts down her phone to her lap, because holding it up like that is weird and looks unnatural, and she doesn’t want the Avengers to catch her in the act. Aileen’s heard that they (by _they_ , Aileen means Tony Stark) give out lawsuits like condoms on Valentines day, and Aileen’s a broke college graduate, not some hot-shot engineer with more than one billion to her name.

 

She’s not _Tony Stark_ , so she doesn’t have money to throw around. So no lawsuits for her, no thank you.

 

But of course, the very real threat of a very expensive lawsuit doesn’t stop her from indulging. Aileen almost moans as Natasha cards her hand through her hair and curls a finger around an errant lock, and so far, she and James Barnes still hasn’t broken eye contact. _Really, guys!_ She screeches in her mind hotly, _in the lobby_?

 

 _Please continue_ , her mind hastily tacks on.

 

More pictures, her brain goades. And Aileen Wiesenbauer is but a meat suit to her brain matter, so of course, she takes more pictures. One will make it to the back of her ID should she get this job. She really hopes she gets this job.

 

She can almost see it— bumping into Captain America, maybe getting asked out by him for coffee, him saying sorry for not looking at where he’s going. Oh, it’s perfect and very much like a Nicholas Sparks novel. Maybe Natasha will introduce her to her boyfriend, James Barnes, and the Winter Soldier and she could be friends.

 

Aileen tamps down her excitement and finally pockets her phone, giggling to herself as she leans back into the plush seats of Stark Industries’ reception area.

 

When she does, she finally notices the man right across from her, his legs crossed daintily, hands poised on the armrests.

 

She’s never started to sweat so fast— not even gyms could get her to sweat this fast.

 

_Act normal, act normal._

 

“You like iPhones?” he asks, smiling gently. Okay, he looks kind, not like the kind of person who’ll make a scene about her being a total creeper.

 

Aileen’s lips twitches, she’s so nervous, “Y-yeah. They’re pretty good.”

 

The man’s lips purse, and he takes of his sunglasses, and maybe Aileen’s died, because she’s sure her heart’s stopped beating, “Better than Starkphones?”

 

Her mind screeches like a car trying and failing not to fall off a cliff, _it’s_ _TONY FUCKING STARK!_ The urge to just spit out an apology runs through her, and she curses herself for buying the iPhone— to be fair, Starkphones really has better specs and colours—as a person who is well versed in technology, she _knows_ Starkphones have better operating systems. Plus, she’s weak for the iPhone rose gold. Sue her; it’s not her fault Starkphones only had shades of reds, golds, and the colour black. The maroon is really pretty, though.

 

Her foot starts to jiggle, and the sound of her heel tapping incessantly against the marble rings loudly into her ear. This is _bad_ , Aileen. Yesterday’s fortune cookie was right— _be careful of your surroundings_.

 

The stars aligned to say _fuck you, Aileen._

 

“Of course _not_ , Mr. Stark!” She amends, but the man pulls a wounded look, his eyes widening as he stares at her somberly.

 

He sighs, slowly pressing a hand onto his chest, “My heart’s been broken, Miss Aileen Wiesenbauer. _Broken_.”

 

“I-I—” Aileen stutters, “I’m so _sorry_ , Mr. Stark! They _are_ really good, Mr. Stark!”

 

She’s not even going to question how he knows her name. The man’s practically the walking, talking Wikipedia. Not only that, rumour has it that he’s got _Skynet_ on his side or something. Creepy things you’ll only find on Reddit or on a tumblr blog.

 

Tony Stark’s wide brown eyes look to the side (yeah, she totally gets why people hail him as the Eyelash God now) and Aileen just about wants to drop kick herself into a tub of hydrofluoric acid and be done with it, maybe go into hiding in the Cambodian forest with her pet turtle, anything but this. It _hurts_.

 

He finally turns his eyes at her (by _God_ , he does have pretty eyes. She’s so sorry if she ever doubted the Starknatics from tumblr) and flutters his eyelashes once, and her bisexual heart jumps a beat.

 

This is _bad,_ Aileen.

 

“You know what would make me feel better?” He asks.

 

Aileen leans forward from her chair, “What would, Mr. Stark?” she asks eagerly.

 

Mr. Stark smiles, and it’s beautiful and slow and sweet, and Aileen feels like she’s free falling as he says, “If you deleted those photos you were taking.”

 

Is this what Captain America felt like when he dunked himself into the freezing water? Is this what death feels like? Is this what they meant when Jesus sacrificed himself for humanity’s sins? Is this her soul leaving her useless, unworthy human body?

 

“I,” Aileen’s stumped. Stumped and defeated. “Yes, Mr. Stark.”

 

She’s not about to _lie_ to Tony Stark. Her mother raised her better than that.

 

“Good!” He smiles and tucks his palm under his chin, his elbow propped on his knee. He watches Aileen happily.

 

When it suddenly dawns on her that he won’t be leaving her to her own devices any time soon, she sighs and deletes the photo, going as far as to show Mr. Stark.

 

“I hope you have fun in the interview, Miss Wiesenbauer,” he moves to stand, dusting away imaginary lint from his immaculate deep red suit, a _Winter Soldier_ t-shirt under it. Oh, man. No one will ever believe her if she said _that_ on tumblr. Stark’s a notorious egotist to them (well, most of them)— but this… this proves them wrong. Stark’s really _cute_ and he wears _Winter Soldier_ merchandise. How does a forty something year old man pull it off? Beautifully and effortlessly, that’s how.

 

He buttons his suit jacket elegantly, “I heard Evans is a _hard ass_ ,” he stage-whispers at her, “but don’t worry. I’ll put in a good word, yeah?”

 

Tony Stark gives her an award winning smile and puts on his sunglasses, which aren’t meant to be worn outside, but he makes it work, for some ungodly reason.

 

“Buh-bye, honey!”

 

Even his ass is perfect when he walks away.

 

Natasha and Bucky is thrown out from the metaphorical windows of her mind, and she sits back into her chair, pulling out her phone as she thinks about good usernames with _stark_ or _tony_ or _iron man_ in it. Such is the fucking life, she thinks. Only Tony Stark can damage her psyche and _then_ turn her into a fan.

 

 **TWO: Steve Rogers**.

 

For clarity’s sake, _yes_ , Rogers and Stark _have_ dated.

 

It was hard, fast, and beautiful.

 

Doctor Morgana Edith doesn’t say this to _anyone_ , but she’s the one who put up the betting pool about those two. From the start of their relationship, to the bitter and very explosive end. She had to sew up Rogers’ arm after he and Stark got into a fight and guns got involved. Whoever thought that Stark couldn’t hold his own in a fight with Captain America is clearly wrong and ignorant, and should probably be sent into psychiatric care if they witnessed one of those fights going down.

 

The base actually _thought_ it was cute. Maybe Morgana did, too, but since she’s a doctor, so if anyone asked her _professional opinion_ , she’s going to say that they need to find better ways to let out all that anger. It’s not healthy, and it scares the new recruits to the medical bay. Plus, all the shrinks down in Psych are getting a bit white around the temple.

 

She feels sorry for them, but she’s never felt more scared sewing up a very aggravated and _cursing_ Captain America, his shoulder fucked up four ways like a white girl during Happy Hour on Thursday night, his eyebrows dipping so low in between his forehead she was half-sure there was going to be a fissure while Tony Stark prowled the long hallways of Medbay like an especially pissed off tiger, snarling and snapping at anything or anyone.

 

Thank God her shift was over before the two fucked it out in the custodial closet like some fucking heathens— Meg was there, though, and she could prove, with no little amount of trauma and confused sexual frustration, that Tony Stark is indeed _very_ loud.

 

Her (and the whole left wing of Medbay’s) exact words were: _like cats in heat._

 

Now, she’s not one to listen to cats stick it into each other, but she does know when a sound sounds bad and not at all sexy. Or weirdly, scarily sexy. Meg tells her there was _screaming_ involved. A lot of it. Someone’s email blasted it into their work emails. So Morgana _could_ know what Tony Stark sounded like while he’s getting nailed, but she’s not a masochist, no matter what Meg (and her flogs) thinks.

 

So yes, she’s not going to make the betting pool this time. She’s really not. The last one only gave her three thousand dollars and a date to one of Ramsay’s restaurants, and as tempting as a repeat of that is, she’s not going to do it.

 

Meg—her trusty colleague and doting fiancée— nudges at her, her sharp elbows connecting with Morgana’s ribs, which hurt, by the way. Just because she’s in SHIELD medical doesn’t mean she’s all superpowered or resistant to pain like the rest of them.

 

Morgana lifts her eyes from her clipboard and follows Meg’s line of sight, landing on Stark and Rogers, Stark leaning against the wall casually, just in his neoprene, the obscene lines (how the _hell_ and when the _fuck_ did he get those curves? She feels _insecure_ of all fucking things) of his body just _splayed_ across the white walls of the med bay. He’s got his arms crossed across his chest as he tips up his chin to stare up at Rogers, who is smiling down almost devilishly at Stark, and Morgana wants to slam her head against a metal door, because she can feel the need to start a betting pool starting up again.

 

Barnes is sleeping in a bed near them, and Morgana feels for the poor guy. He should get a girlfriend, or boyfriend. Just _someone_. Someone who can hold a vigil by his bedside or something cute like that.

 

Morgana can’t actually hear what they’re saying, and she likes to think she has some inkling of privacy and self-discipline, so she goes back to pouring over her notes, the memorising her route for today.

 

But obviously, the love of her life isn’t the same, because one, Meg can read lips, and two, Meg has no self-control. None at all. Sometimes it’s hot, sometimes it ends up with Morgana having to deal with one order too many of Chipotle hard shell tacos, but Meg’s cute and a devil in bed so she lets it slide.

 

“ _Dinner, maybe?_ That’s Stark. _Coney Island, after_? That’s Rogers. _It’s a date._ That’s Stark.”

 

“ _Megara_ , shut the fuck up.” Morgana admonishes, “If Captain America catches you, don’t come crying to me.”

 

Her fiancée rolls her eyes, “Oh, please. You love it. Set up that betting pool, I want our honeymoon to be in Italy.”

 

Morgana shakes her head and flips to the next page, “No.” she says with finality. Someone in this relationship has to be an _adult_.

 

Although Italy during the summer _does_ sound nice.

 

Morgana sneaks a look at Rogers and Stark. Stark’s got his hand on Rogers’ bicep now, smiling lovingly up at him. He squeezes once, and then pushes him aside because Barnes is waking up, and Morgana tucks her clipboard under her armpit, pushing up her glasses into her hair  as she strides on over to the trio.

 

Stark plants himself on the edge of the bed, because he can, and probably because this whole new Medbay is from his pocket. After the last three times that Barnes got fucked up, he finally snapped and splurged on it. Not that the old Medbay was bad (oh, it was. _It was_ ) but it was lacking in some things.

 

“Hello, Mr. Barnes,” she greets amicably, and Barnes blearily looks up at her, his grey-blue eyes struggling to focus. Stark hums as he reaches out to push back his hair. Sometimes she doesn’t understand how such cute people could protect her and the world she lives in. But then Stark crashes his Iron Man armour into psych with three zombie wolf things at his heels and she remembers. They may be cute, but they’re extremely dangerous and should not be taken lightly. Especially Stark— people think he’s harmless, but Morgana’s seen him take down Captain America with a warning shot on the wall beside his head, and his _thighs._

 

(Now Morgana know that’s a Black Widow move, and honestly, that woman could asphyxiate her with those thighs _any fucking time_. Don’t tell Meg. Or, _tell_ Meg.)

 

Stark smiles beatifically and easily, “How are you feeling?”

 

That’s supposed to be Morgana’s line, but what the hell. She uses the button to lift Barnes up into a sitting position, fiddling with the tubes surrounding him. He’s a super soldier, yeah, but deep inside, he’s still got normal human being guts. Soft intestines and thin skin, easy to cut open. Quick to heal, sure, but not when your guts have literally been through a blender. Sad, but the truth.

 

Barnes lets out a goofy little laugh and sways forward, hand brushing against Stark’s stomach, “I’m tryna feel _you_ ,” he tries to say suavely but misses by about two thousand miles, and Stark freezes like a deer in headlights, eyes flicking towards Rogers, who is now talking to Morgana’s fiancée.

 

Stark then looks at her, and she smiles, because although she _doesn’t_ care about his and Rogers’ relationship anymore, she doesn’t want there to be a brawl inside her Medbay. The Medbay _Stark_ paid for.

 

She really doesn’t want anyone to break the vending machine again.

 

“No one’s feeling anyone, Mr. Barnes. Now, if you’ll look up,” she points upwards, and Barnes’ eyes travel upwards, slowly but surely, and Morgana goes into routine then, until she can give him a clean bill of health.

 

He smirks all the way through it, out of it and half-drugged as a drugged up super soldier can be, and Morgana fights the urge to pat his head and give him a lollipop or something, after she’s done checking him over.

 

_He can kill you, Morgana. Just because he won’t doesn’t mean he can’t. You’ve seen it._

 

The shiver that goes through her body is because of the draft, she reasons. America is _not_ like her always sunny, always humid New Zealand.

 

“All good,” she nods and gives them an easy-looking smile, because not only the spies here can fake a face or two, “You still need to go to psych eval, though—”

 

Stark shakes his head minutely.

 

“—we could skip that now. I’ll fake a note. Coulson can find me, but he’ll never kill his best doctor.”

 

Stark smiles, “You know, I hear Italy is nice this time of the year,” he says offhandedly as he ducks away from Barnes’ hand coming to pet his hair, “On me. You and the wife-to-be.”

 

Morgana swallows, but nonetheless keeps her face a blank face of professionalism, because only Tony Stark can make a gift sound like a threat— not that she doesn’t like the thought of going to Italy on his dime, but still. Kitten making a threat, potentially dangerous, do not engage. Especially since backing said kitten up is Captain America and a legion of suits that could (and has) level a whole country.

 

Oh, she doesn’t blame him about _that_ , not really. She’d be proper freaked if an alien race came to destroy everything she knows. If no one stepped up to bat to defend earth, Morgana’d probably just kick the bucket. Plus, the story the spinned to the press is really humanitarian.

 

Bottom line, she doesn’t care, not anymore. Not _as much_. In this line of work, you become desensitised. It’s not the best thing to be, but sometimes, you have to.

 

Morgana winks at him and clicks her pen, “I’ll hold you to that, Iron Man.”

 

Stark grins and says nothing, scolding Barnes lightly, who is still making passes at him. Cute.

 

Morgana leaves the little cubicle just in time for Rogers to put his hand on Stark’s hip as they talked to Barnes, who is gravely frowning. If word travels that Stark and Rogers are back together, it certainly didn’t come from her. She’s not going to say that it came from Meg, either.

 

Meg hooks her arm around Morgana’s, and they leave the three to it.

 

Coulson does threaten to fire her after he learns that she skimped out on Barnes’ psych eval, but as always, he really _doesn’t_ fire her, because no matter what they say, they really appreciate it when she skips out on shrink time— no one likes getting their heads poked at after they just got their bodies prodded like a cadaver in a classroom filled with immature freshmen students in med school.

 

Three weeks later, she’s on leave with her new wife to Italy, and there’s a bouquet of flowers in their hotel room, and a small card asking them to send a postcard, and thanking her for patching up _J._ Signed, _T._ Morgana wonders who _J_ is.  She does send a postcard, in the end, of Santorini.

 

She signs it, _love lots, please don’t come back to the medbay soon, M & M. _

 

Meg coerces her to put a lipstick mark on it.

 

Morgana didn’t make the betting pool, by the way.

 

**THREE: James Rhodes.**

 

“Hey, do you think I could get a picture with Hawkeye?”

 

Quentin sniffs and furrows his eyebrows, “I don’t fucking know, man. I just work here.”

 

The woman nods happily, “So I _can_?”

 

“Can’t you see I’m fucking sweeping shit up? Leave me alone, lady. If radioactive goop gets on you, it’s not my fucking fault.”

 

Her lower lip wobbles, and it might have worked on Quentin four hours before the latest battle of Manhattan took place, but now, as tired as he is, it’s really not going to work on him. He just wants to get home to his two cats and watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine or something. Maybe drown himself in the bathtub. This hazmat suit isn’t doing him any favours of the smell not clinging onto him.

 

Her eyelashes are clumping now, and if on top of all this shit he’s cleaning up, if he’s got to deal with a case for harassment, he’s going to jump off of a building. He really is. He didn’t study electrical engineering so he could be the Avengers’ clean up crew, but here he is. _Cleaning_ . How debasing. Humiliating. How _drab._

 

“Oh my god, is that _War Machine_?”

 

Quentin rolls his eyes, because great acting chops there, sweetie. Really great. He looks up and indeed, that’s War Machine, but clambering on top of his back is a de-suited Iron Man, his hair windswept and messy as he hooks his arms around James Rhodes’ neck, hanging off of the man like a backpack.

 

The woman clutches her phone and squeals. “ _Cute_!”

 

It _is_ cute, he surmises. Sourly surmises. Nice to see they’re having fun while he cleans up all the shit in downtown New York.

 

Quentin pauses his sweeping to watch the two with the nameless fanatic, leaning against his broom. He should have been in sample collection today, but he dealt the short straw in the stack and Jim got collection along with _his_ team. Quentin’s never felt hatred as much as in that moment.

 

Still, it’s good money.

 

Rhodes flips up his mask and Stark scrambles up until his torso all but hanging over Rhodes’ shoulder, smiling widely. It’s no secret that the two has been… _close_ since Stark was a young one, so it didn’t need leaps and bounds (or actual, fact-based evidence) to assume that the two were an item. Are an item? Quentin doesn’t make it a point to follow celebrity lives, but when it’s in front of him, it’s kind of hard _not to_. He says something to Stark that makes him chortle in laughter, flopping like a fish over Rhodes’ shoulder as he does.

 

“I’m taking a picture of this. It’s cute. Too cute. My daughter will _love_ this.”

 

She’s got a _daughter_?

 

Quentin startles when she drags him after her, her grip surprisingly strong, or not really all that surprised, because toddlers tend to get away when you don’t have a firm grip on them, so he guesses she has practice, being a mom and all?

 

She waves them down shamelessly, and Quentin feels dread creeping down his spine as his palms start to sweat. Oh, if this goes tits up, he really doesn’t want to _be here_. Plus, they’ll have his head for letting a civilian through the police lines. He’ll be fired faster than a picture is taken.

 

He has a mortgage and two cats to feed, so yes, this is bad news for him. Or will be, if shit hits the fan.

 

“Hey, hi, hello, Mr. Stark, Lieutenant Rhodes,” she smiles brightly, and Quentin kind of hates her, because he doesn’t want to be in this predicament, “Can I have a picture?” She asks boldly.

 

Stark grins right back, bright and pretty as you please, and Quentin is struck by how effortlessly beautiful he is. What a _hit_ to his hererosexuality that is. Rhodes nods tightly, like the army man that he is, and it should look funny, as Stark _is_ hanging off of him like a limpet or a particularly fetching fur coat.

 

She thrusts the phone into Quentin’s chest as she sidles right on beside the War Machine, looking awfully small against the six foot something engineering marvel, and Rhodes puts a gentle hand over her shoulder, and one clamps on the small of Stark’s back to keep him in place. Stark, happy enough where he’s hanging, props his elbow up on Rhodes’ chest, chin on his palm, and grins at Quentin, camera ready even with the soot and little bits of debris in his hair.

 

One thinks about all the _Am I Gay?_ quizzes one’s taken.

 

A rock drops clear on _that_ side of the Kinsey scale.

 

“Look, Stark’s taking a picture! Group picture, you little selfish shit!” Hawkeye barks from somewhere, and suddenly, he’s running past Quentin and beside the woman, and then Rogers is tugging Barnes behind him, laughing and dirty and all. Romanova is the last to appear, her hair pulled up into a messy ponytail, the ends singed off.

 

Half of them are still covered in radioactive goop, Maximoff looks like she doesn’t even want to be there, and the Vision is hovering awkwardly, but Quentin still holds up the phone as best as he can, trying to take their picture. He moves backwards a bit and counts.

 

“One,” Stark grins again, throwing up his trademark peace sign.

 

“Two,” Rhodes turns to look at Stark, his eyes bright and a little grin peeking through the depths of his helmet.

 

“Three,” Quentin doesn’t see Barnes with his thick eyebrows and goop in his hair, one hand hovering by Stark’s waist as if to keep him from falling, and no one else does.

 

“Cheese!” they all say together.

 

# _HeartEyesRhodey_ trends on almost every social media platform and the picture makes it on the Avengers mantle, right beside the picture where James Buchanan Barnes finally gets named an Avenger.

 

The woman—whose name is Carmina, by the by— gives him a signed copy and invites him over for dinner. Her daughter is lovely, and Quentin lives vicariously through her whenever it comes to shrieking over Tony Stark. All in all, he’s really glad that he was sweeping up after the Avengers on that day.

 

**FOUR: Sam Wilson.**

 

There’s a tumblr blog named _fuck-yeah-winter-wilson_ and it has about a thousand followers. Now, that particular blog may or may not be ran by one of the morning guards near Central Park, but all speculations aside, what the blog _posts about_ is daily pictures of Wilson and Barnes running side-by-side every morning, sometimes Rogers is with them, but most of the time, it’s just the two of them.

 

It’s not just pictures, too. There’s transcriptions of some of their conversations, sometimes there’s fanarts, sometimes there’s _Proof of Sambucky,_  shit like that. It’s well rounded, well received, and it’s growing at an excitingly fast rate.

 

And the first son of Spring & Co., who goes by the name Lucas, or _Luke_ , follows it _religiously_.

 

So when his father told him that they’re invited to a Stark Industries Charity Ball with the _Avengers_ as guests of honour, well, one can only imagine how he ran up to his room and screamed into his pillows, but no amount of thread count can and will contain his excitement.

 

His father looks indulgent, because he’s a _great_ father, smiling at his only son as Luke asked all the questions he could think of, chuffing out a small laugh from behind his thick beard.

 

He just shakes his head and scrolls through the stock trade of the morning, “You should ask Sergeant Barnes for a dance.”

 

Luke looks at his father suspiciously, and then offensively. “I wouldn’t do that to Mr. Wilson,” he says haughtily, because as much of a tart as he is in real life, he’s not going to get between a beautiful relationship like Sam Wilson and James Barnes’, no sir.

 

Augusto Spring raises a thick, white eyebrow. “Oh?”

 

“Do you not _know_ , dad?” Luke leans on the table, and his father looks at him and with narrowed eyes, and Luke scoots back into his seat, fiddling with his fingers. “They’re _together_!” he whispers, because it _is_ a secret, and the maids tend to spread things around here faster than wildfire.

 

His father raises two grey eyebrows.

 

“There’s pictures,” he says quietly, meekly.

 

Luke almost pulls out his phone to show his father what’s what, but stops himself immediately. He never knows how people react to these kind of things, and in retrospect, it _is_ almost like stalking. Well, Luke likes to think he’s just supporting a well-rounded relationship.

 

His father laughs again. “He and Tony are seen a lot together, too. Are they together?”

 

Luke makes a face. “ _Ew_ , dad. Uncle Tony and the _Winter Soldier?_  Talk about robbing the cradle,”

 

“Stark or Barnes?”

 

Luke ignores him in order to plow through his little rant, “Plus, Uncle Tony is totally into Captain America or something. Or Lieutenant Rhodes. Also Miss Pepper. There’s so many,”

 

“Are you calling your godfather a slut?”

 

“I might be. He called me a little shit the last time!”

 

His father laughs loudly, his voice booming through his home office, “But he’s right,”

 

“ _Dad_.”

 

Uncle Tony isn’t his true uncle— but dad and Uncle Tony’s dad, Howard, go way back, like _way_ , way back. Uncle Tony is actually his godfather. And Luke is very lucky, because Uncle Tony is _rich_ , richer than the Springs, even, and every year, on his birthday, there’s always something good for him from his godfather.

 

Maybe this is his little peace offering after he called Luke a little shit, but who knows, at this point?

 

**

 

The day didn’t come quickly enough— actually, it did, but Luke is really impatient sometimes (most of the time). He’s bringing one other friend as his plus one, a sweet girl named Claire with too many piercings with the manners of a Canadian. He actually met her through the _fuck-yeah-winter-wilson_ blog, and they’ve been close friends since. So when he heard about the whole ball thing, he texted her after it immediately, and hoped he’ll have his own Cinderella moment in it. He’s a young gay boy, let him have his fucking thing.

 

Claire looks dashing in a deep black three piece suit with red piping and a silver cumber bund sitting daintily across her ribs and under her breasts, flaunting her cleavage, her dark hair swept up into a thick box braids trailing down her back, and Luke is in a tuxedo in mauve, the dress shirt is muted and pretty, but still kind of a shiny silver. No one but them could know, but they’re wearing _sambucky_ colours.

 

Claire was the one to come up with the theme, and Luke was the nightmare that forced their beloved tailor to make it for them ASAP.

 

He’ll give Maeve a super special fruit basket after this. Maybe a trip to the Bahamas with her wife and two kids. Yeah, Luke will definitely get on that once he gets home.

 

His arm curls around Claire’s, and _God_ , she’s so much more taller than him.

 

“You see any of the Avengers yet?” she asks.

 

Luke shakes his head, his platinum blond hair falling across his eyes. He hasn’t seen any of them yet, and maybe they’re just arriving fashionably late. He wouldn’t put it past Uncle Tony, who _loves_ arriving late to everything, even his own charity balls. There was this one time he hacked the huge T.V. in the middle of the pulpit and said hello from his workshop, still covered in soot and one of his eyebrows were gone.

 

He’s never seen Miss Pepper as red as her hair as in that moment. Miss Natasha was there though, to calm her down.

 

Claire tugs at his arm, “Is that _James Barnes_?” she says in a low, shrill voice, and Luke calmly smiles at the waiter passing with a tray of sparkling bubbly—he took a sip; it’s cider. Trust Uncle Tony to put cider instead of actual alcohol in his drinks. Looking out for the kids and the alcoholics. He’s proud of him, though, with his uncle being a recovering alcoholic and all.

 

The Winter Soldier—formally known as Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th— is wearing a sleek black three piece, double breasted, with dark silver details, his hair tucked behind his ears and falling over his shoulders in a very, very sexy looking no-effort look. Some part of Luke is sad that he isn’t wearing his dress blues. Luke may have to bury his head in the punch bowl to get through the night.

 

Claire makes a noise between a moan and a shriek of distress as she digs her long nails into Luke’s arm, eyes widening as Sam Wilson, clad in a tuxedo cut similarly as Bucky Barnes’, but in a lighter mauve, on his arm a petite blonde with sharp blue eyes. Luke purses his lips at them. Maybe they don’t want to be _out_ out with their relationship, who knows? Luke can relate, definitely.

 

Honestly, they look heavenly, the both of them. Maeve would sob over their suits— fitted to the nines, their muscles for all to see.

 

“Luke!” Uncle Tony calls from where he’s suddenly appeared with Lieutenant Rhodes by his side, his godfather in a beautiful maroon suit with an electric yellow dress shirt.

 

“Uncle Tony!” he calls right back, and envelops his godfather into a hug. For all Luke claims that he hates his godfather, he really, really doesn’t. He’s easily the best non-relative he has. He’s even better than _some_ of his relatives. Luke leans back and tugs at his godfather’s long hair, the errant curls falling over his forehead.

 

He smiles, “You’re trying too hard to look young, Uncle Tony.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes, “Please. I’m the epitome of beauty.”

 

Luke steps back and runs a haughty and judgemental finger down his uncle’s lapels, eyes narrowing and Tony’s eyes brighten at that. This is a common practice for the two of them, since Luke really, really _loves_ it when people dress up and let him guess what make their clothes are. Uncle Tony usually wears the most dramatic things (he once wore a turtleneck silk dress with a slit up the thigh that ended by the dip of his upper thigh so he could prove that it takes _skill_ to move in dresses as long as those) and Luke, coincidentally enough, loves wearing dramatic things too.

 

“Italian. Double breasted,” he hums, and his godfather looks far too smug, “Fully lined… cool pocket square.” Luke gasps scandalously, “Is this custom made _Versace_?” He asks, eyes widening.

 

“Got it in one, godson.” His uncle remarks with pride, patting down Luke’s platinum blond hair, which is already flat as it is. Blame his mother for having such straight hair.

 

“How’d you get Donatella to make you one?”

 

Tony purses his lips, “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,”

 

Lieutenant Rhodes snorts from beside him. Luke shakes his hand and greets him. When did the Lieutenant get so… small? Or is it Luke’s growth spurt? Either way, he’s taller than the both of them, which is great. Claire is taller than all of them, because she has Amazon blood in her, and maybe she’s related to Michael Jordan or something. She’s hitting 1.93 centimeters. It’s not _fair_.

 

His brown eyes turn to Claire, a smile (Luke dubs it as his _Teenager Present, Smile like a Cool Adult_ smile) taking up half of his face. He reaches out for Claire’s hand, and Claire, starstruck as she is, soundlessly lifts her hand for Tony to take.

 

“Introduce me, farm boy,”

 

“Don’t call me that, you old geezer. Claire, this is my godfather, Tony Stark. Uncle Tony, Claire Richards.”  

 

“He calls me old, but I’m not one who has white hair. Nice to meet you, Miss Claire.” He says as he presses a respectful kiss onto the back of Claire’s hand, and Claire blushes in a shade that Luke is sure means she’s popped a blood vessel. The red makes her dark skin glowy, and Luke fights off a giggle.

 

“Hey, uncle,” Luke sing-songs as he follows his godfather as he makes his rounds with the other yuppies, “Introduce Claire and I to Mr. Wilson and Sergeant Barnes, will you?”

 

Tony levels him with a look, as he moves past the Akutagas, “You know you’re the fifteenth person to ask me that?”

 

He and Claire share a look with each other.

 

Luke smiles, bringing his hands up to curl underneath his chin, “Pretty please?”

 

“I live with Captain America, kid. No matter how pretty your please is, it won’t affect me.”

 

Luke exaggerates his pout. Tony keeps on talking with the people in the crowd, up until someone announces that they could begin dancing. He totally forgot! There’s _dancing_ involved. Oh, gosh.

 

Claire tugs at his sleeve, and Sergeant Barnes is walking towards them, his metal hand over his stomach as he keeps his eyes straight at them. He’s doing that walk-strut-lope thing that he does on the field (yeah, shut up, so what if Luke has it downloaded to his phone and watches it everyday?) but somehow this is more… well, it’s… for the lack of a better word, it’s more _focused_ , like he’s going in for the kill.

 

“Is he looking at us?” Luke asks almost hysterically, “Tell me he isn’t looking at us.”

 

Claire shakes her head as Sergeant Barnes walks past them in a blur of hunky, beefy six foot something, smelling like mint and oak, stopping in front of Luke’s godfather.

 

“May I have this dance?” He asks lowly, and by God, that’s a true Italian Brooklyn accent, no wonder his godfather looks way too happy and a little bit surprised about everything.

 

Luke watches as his godfather turns his body towards Bucky Barnes, “What, Sam got something better to do?” he smirks a smirk Luke dubs as _Hello, Sailor #1_ , but this one is softer. Luke needs to make up another name for it.

 

“Nah,” Bucky says with a playful smirk, Tony slips his hand in Sergeant Barnes’ waiting one, and Luke gapes at them.

 

Uncle Tony hums, “His loss, my gain.”

 

His godfather winks at him as he passes, before getting swept towards the dance floor in a flurry of elegant tango. Luke’s head swivels to find Sam Wilson, but he’s just watching Uncle Tony and Bucky Barnes with a smile on his face. Uncle Tony is such a fucking _tart,_ honestly. It’s amazing and awe inspiring.

 

Claire tugs him towards the dance floor, too, leading the dance effortlessly, “Sam Wilson and James Barnes. They’re so comfortable with their relationship.” she says dreamily.

 

Luke purses his lips and twists in Claire’s arms, “Yeah.”

 

When he gets home that night, his father tells him they raised over a million for the Syrian refugees, and his godfather sends him a picture of Sam and Bucky leaning against each other, deep in sleep, Sam’s head on Bucky’s shoulder. Uncle Tony’s feet is in Bucky’s lap, and the Winter Soldier’s metal hand is curled around a lightly tanned ankle. Luke saves it but doesn’t send it to Claire. Somehow, it feels like it wouldn’t be right to do that.

 

His godfather says, underneath the picture: _old men need sleep. they also say you and claire looked “swell”. that’s “great” in old man speak. xx tony_

 

Luke shakes his head as he books a cruise for Maeve and her family to the Bahamas.

 

**FIVE: Natasha Romanova, Again.**

 

Natasha is grace.

 

Natasha is elegance.

 

Natasha is danger and beauty.

 

Natasha is _patience_. And kindness.

 

Natasha is… trying to text Steve and the rest of the gang where she and Tony are, but Tony’s trying his best to stop that, because he’s waving her arm around, ducking under it, curling around her body like a limpet, biting at her ear like a kitten, twirling under her arm like a ballerina, making Star Wars lightsaber noises, even going as far as to press his face into her stomach.

 

From the outside looking in, you would just see a particularly rowdy Tony Stark in a huge army shirt and tight black jeans and bright yellow Doc Martens, trying to annoy the shit out of a blank-faced Natasha Romanova, and people are actually actively trying to take pictures now, and while she doesn’t give a flying fuck, she’s definitely _sure_ that Pepper will actively try to kill her if she gets into a scandal with Tony _again_.

 

“Tony,” she growls, but Tony doesn’t care, singing _You Shook Me All Night Long_ loudly as he danced around her, her hand clasped tightly in his.

 

While she absolutely _adores_ Tony Stark, she _adores_ Pepper more, so she tugs Tony closer and whispers into his ear, like a mother warning her child in the middle of the grocery store, “If you don’t stop, I’ll tell Steve about that one time you broke three of your ribs and then went back into battle. Do you _want_ him to mother hen you?”

 

Tony swallows but a glint of something lights up in his eyes as he grins up at her, from where he’s wrapped his arms around her waist, “You do that and I’ll tell Pepper you’re the one who broke her favourite wine glass,”

 

Natasha stops and does _not_ flush in anger, pocketing her phone. “ _You_ do _that_ and I’ll tell Bucky about that one protocol you have where you’re dead but the armour is still fighting under JARVIS’ supervision.”

 

Tony’s smug smirk falls and Natasha squints at him, because he should know better than to think Natasha doesn’t know something. She’s _Natasha,_  goddamnit.

 

“You _know_ I nixed that!”

 

She smirks smugly as Tony glares, pouting as he stands off to her side, placated after being given a proper threat. Because she loves him like a brother, she tangles her pinky with his as she returns to texting Steve.

 

The next morning, Pepper straddles her waist as she thrust her Starkphone into Natasha’s face, catching her off guard and bleary.

 

Her girlfriend hisses, “What is _this_?”

 

Natasha groans as Pepper digs her knee into her tender ribs, but it does wake her up so she blinks up at the bright phone, the picture finally clearing up in front of her.

 

_Tony Stark Tries His Hardest to Distract Girlfriend, Natasha Romanova (p. 12)._

 

She stares at it, because goddamnit, she _knew_ it.

 

“It’s Tony and I,” Natasha says, slowly, and Pepper stares down at her with those pretty cobalt eyes that mean _I’m really not impressed right now, and I’m waiting for you to make it better_ , and Natasha feels a shiver make it up her spine. Nothing makes Pepper look hotter than a crisis at—Natasha looks at the little alarm clock on their nightstand, a trinket from their Moscow trip— four eleven in the morning. Pepper’s just in her skirt, and Natasha’s supposed to escort her to Hong Kong for a shareholder meeting.

 

Pepper twists her nipple, and it’s not sexy at all, it hurts a little bit, and Natasha shields her boobs from Pepper’s nails, “It’s Tony trying his hardest to distract his girlfriend!” she replies to her girlfriend’s question laughingly, and Pepper’s frown deepens. The divots on her forehead crinkle, and Natasha’s eyes soften a little at that. A year together, almost.

 

Somehow, Natasha feels as if she could grow old with this woman.

 

“Look,” Natasha puts her hands over the swell of Pepper’s hips, rubbing soft circles with her thumbs, “It’ll blow over soon. You know they love pairing me up with anyone.”

 

“Yes,” Pepper says snootily, “I hated that one with Sergeant Barnes.”

 

“You thought it was hot, Virginia, don’t lie to me.”

 

Pepper doesn’t have a lying tell—it’s what makes her such a good businesswoman— but she does flush this pretty pink that reaches up to her ears and all the way down on top of the freckles on her breasts that means she’s turned on. Maybe, if Natasha tried hard enough, Pepper will forgive her and forget about the tabloid.

 

But of course, Pepper is Pepper, so she puts a halting hand over Natasha’s, velvety on top of the rough skin of Natasha’s hands. She’s so _different_ from Natasha.

 

She’s different, yeah, but she’s so far from normal.

 

“I’m not going to be swayed on this one, but I don’t blame you.” She hums as she sways forward, curling herself under Natasha’s chin, and it should be awkward, as small as Natasha is, but there they are; the whole world thinks that she and Tony are together, but the woman who she’s just so fucking in love with, the woman who is at _least_ six inches taller than her curling perfectly underneath Natasha’s chin like she belongs there.

 

An almost violent urge to protect her swells in Natasha’s belly, a dim reminder of the time in Stark Expo, the way Pepper moved underneath Natasha’s guiding hand, the warmth of danger wafting around them.

 

She huffs, “I don’t blame Tony, either. People see what they want to see.”

 

“This will be cathartic to Tony— didn’t he just break up with what’s his face?” Natasha grins as she feels Pepper nod against her bare chest.

 

“You know what, let him have his fun, right?”

 

“That’s my girl.”

 

**

**_Tony Stark Spotted with Natasha Romanova on his Arm During New York Fashion Week: Going Steady?_**

 

**_By Richard Cure_ **

 

_It should come as no surprise to anyone that Stark has someone new at his arm— but surprisingly enough, it’s Natasha Romanova, alias Black Widow, the first woman to ever become an Avenger. Just last summer, she was linked to another well known Avenger, Sergeant James Barnes, alias Winter Soldier._

_Is Stark simply having the time of his life, or is he coming between what had seemed to be a beautiful relationship?_

_Tony Stark looked devilishly handsome wearing a custom and vintage Savile Row suit in surprisingly, not his trademark colours, but in a dark black with thin stripes of red along it, and a sheer silver dress shirt underneath, boasting the arc reactor in the middle of his sternum—definitely a showstopper!— Stark was seen chatting up Versace, a well known family friend of his, and exchanging heated looks with Tom Ford._

_Meanwhile, Romanova was in a resplendent stark red dress with exquisite detailing that Stark crowed to be one of Dior’s makes, and we clocked the evening dress to be one point five million pounds, she was certainly coming off hard and expensive! But nothing less for the woman occupying Stark’s heart and bed._

_When asked about their relationship, Romanova merely raised an eyebrow and smirked, before walking off with Tony Stark. A woman of expense and mystery, indeed._

Kita Kyung-Joo shakes her head as she rereads the article, sighing over Natasha’s dress. The woman could work anything and look resplendent— how can she maintain _that_ figure? Kita reckons the woman could bench both of Iron Man and the War Machine and not break a sweat (oh, the thought gets her quite hot under the collar). She’s wasted with Tony Stark, America’s Sweetheart Slut. The Darling Whore, that’s what they call him at work.

 

She actually saw him visit the restaurant once, he had the Winter Soldier with him, and Kita wasn’t the one who served them, but she heard that they were fighting or something.

 

Kita narrows her eyes at her phone as she leans back into the seat of the subway. Stark is like the Marilyn Monroe of this time— adored, sure. People think he’s lovely, he’s definitely beautiful, but yes. He’s a bit (a lot) of a slut.

 

He’d been photographed with a man just a week ago, for fuck’s sake. Does the man constantly need to be fucked or something? Is it an addiction? This is why the conservatives don’t like him, and while Kita really doesn’t like the republicans, she doesn’t like Stark, either. He’s not that important to the Avengers, since they have Vision now. They have a _king_ on the roster and they’re still keeping Stark in? How sad.

 

She knows the dude is smart and all, but don’t they have a literal god and Bruce Banner on tap?

 

Now she just sounds like a whiny old man. Which she probably is, deep inside. Her soul is a saggy old man with a huge problem with the youth and promiscuity.

 

Kita sighs as she switches to Instagram, liking a couple of pictures from Natasha Romanova and Sam Wilson respectively. She giggles at the goofy thumbs up sign Sam’s throwing, _Wall-E_ playing in the background. Natasha’s is of the same night, but she’s taking a surreptitious selfie of her and Stark who is sleepily leaning over onto her, and from the far end of the frame is a glint of metal.

 

Comments of _omg_ and _you and tony are so cute!_ are the only things Kita sees, and with another sigh, she shuts off her phone and lets her hand plop on top of her lap.

 

Really, though. Poor Natasha, she’s such a beautiful woman. She should have stayed with Bucky Barnes or something. At least with the dude, he’s less high maintenance. Barnes didn’t need to be paid attention like he’s some pedigree dog— Stark either needs a mom or a pet owner as his keeper, or something.

 

Despite her _not_ liking Stark and his still being on the Avengers roster, it’s great that they have more than a couple of heroes ready to defend the world at a moment’s notice, what with Manhattan being the heart of almost all villain activity and all. It honestly makes Kita both tired and scared— tired because every other week of the month, there’s at least one or two days where the subway is out of commission. Scared because when the subway shakes, you don’t know if it’s the flagrant of the week or just the subway being a whiny little bitch.

 

So imagine her utter disappointment when the subway whines to a stop and the tunnel creaks like an old lady getting off the bus, the conductor announcing that they should remain safe in their ‘respective’ subway cars. Kita puts up her phone and crosses her legs, taking to twitter.

 

Sure enough, there’s the villain, trending under the hashtag— _#Dépit_ — and she’s apparently very annoyed with Natasha Romanova, and a lot in love with the Iron Man. How _surprising_ . There’s live tweet about it, how Stark is flirting right back with this week’s cooky villain, and if Kita wasn’t so _done_ with everything, she maybe would have been following and cackling along with the rest of them.

 

Kita rolls her eyes and puts a hand over her face.

 

Shouts of surprise rolls through the people inside the subway as something slams into it, and Kita braces herself against the seat, because this is _not_ her first rodeo, honey, eyes wide and phone tucked neatly back in her sports bra, between her boobs. She’s been trapped under a building once, and it _sucks_ when you don’t have any form of communication or entertainment underneath tons of rubble that could kill you.

 

And the last dude who saved her was hot so… contingency plans for your contingency plans.

 

Hey, She didn’t claim not to be a traipsing tart. She’s an equal opportunity gal.

 

Her train of thought stopped when the lights began flickering until it went out, and she bit her lower lip, wondering if this was her lucky ticket towards death, so she can finally stop being so mediocre.

 

The sound of very familiar, very technical whining fills the air, and the rest of the people in the subway cheered as Iron Man showed up, or rather, stood up as apparently, he’s the one who was thrown against the side of the subway. How? Kita doesn’t fucking know, she’s just here for the ride.

 

And that means that she’s front and centre to witness Black Widow and Iron Man dump each other—did _she_ dump him? Or did he? Is it _mutual_?— in the middle of a fight from a very pissed off small French woman.

 

“Fuck _you_ , Widow,” Iron Man’s faceplate whizzes up and he’s bleeding from a cut high on his eyebrow, and everybody gasps as Black Widow seizes him with an unimpressed look, “This is who _I_ am!”

 

“Is it so hard for you to be monogamous, is that it?” Black Widow hisses, “You just have to flirt with a little French woman in red and white tights?”

 

“There will _always_ be French girls in red and white tights _flirting_ with me!”

 

At least, Kita would have watched all of it go down if it wasn’t for a loud explosion, and the next thing she knows, the doors are opening, and people are scattering, and Kita, well. She’s halfway to being dead anyways, so she follows Iron Man and Black Widow, hiding behind an upturned car, because she _can_ , and this is exactly why she wore a sports bra today. Not because she has no more bras left other than this eight year old sports bra, but because she’s an investigative journalist with a penchant for danger.

 

She peers up the bent door of the car as Iron Man and Black Widow fight side by side, some of the _Dépit’s_ little minions of blue-uniformed assholes being blown out and shot harshly.

 

Kita records everything, of course. She’s a twenty something in the middle of the technological age. She can sell this to _TMZ._

 

“Every single day I walk down the street, I hear people say 'baby’, it’s so sweet—” Stark barks out, wait, is he _singing_ it?

 

“Ever since puberty, everybody stares at me—boys, girls, I can’t help it, baby!” Kita can’t believe it. Is he really fucking _singing_ in the middle of battle?

 

“Take me for what I am, who I was meant to be,” Widow points her gun towards him and rolls her eyes before drop kicking a minion,

 

“And if you give a damn, take me, baby,” he puts his hands over his chest, “Or leave me.” He pouts as he follows Natasha around, helping her dispose of the thousands of minions littering around.

 

“You better shut up now, Stark,” Widow says without humour, and Kita can’t see her face, but what she does see is the wicked one-two combo she lands the next two minions, followed up by Stark’s repulsors, and Kita lets out a breathy _wow_ as the two blue minion sails across the street.

 

“But you love the limelight too, pookie!”

 

Widow puts her gun back into her holster. " _Y_ _ou_ know what?”

 

They turn to each other, and Kita rests her elbows on the side of the car as she records all of it, “I hate messes, but I love you,” Widow says confidently, and Stark’s faceplate pops back up.

 

Then they _begin_ singing.

 

“Take me for what I am,”

 

Stark scoffs, “A control freak.”

 

“Who _I_ was meant to be,” Widow pushes him back with a hand over the bright blue thingy smack dab centre in his chest just as Stark says, “A snob, yet over attentive.”

 

“And if _you_ give a damn—”

 

“An anal retentive!”

 

Widow shakes her head, and Kita feels for the woman—she _gets_ her, even if Black Widow is doing it in song— “Take me, baby, or _leave me_.”

 

Someone calls out, “Right now? Guys? Seriously?” but Kita’s too emotionally attached to what’s happening to actually pay attention to whoever said it. Who knew Widow and Stark’s voice could sound so beautiful together, huh?

 

Widow points to something behind Stark, and the Iron Man turns, shooting squarely into a goon’s chest, and the villain screeches, probably because she’s losing a _lot_ while two of the Avengers are doing it while they’re fucking _singing_.

 

Natasha curls into a ball as a shower of bullets rain on them, and Kita gasps, thankful she had half a mind to hide behind a good cover.

 

The French girl shrieks, “Pay _attention to me_!”

 

Stark shoots _Dépit_ enough to knock her out, and turns to face a barely panting Black Widow.

 

“Guess I’m leaving,” he says haughtily, his chin up in the air.

 

Widow sneers right back, holstering her guns, “I’m gone.”

 

And then Stark’s shooting up into the sky and Widow is running in the opposite direction, and Kita feels like she’s about to faint. This is something right out of a fucking musical or something, it must be.

 

Her train of thought is stopped because she _does_ pass out.

 

**

Natasha watches from beside a sleepy Tony as the Good Captain almost bursts an aneurysm as he recounts what happened during the battle, his voice getting more high pitched with every passing word.

 

Tony sways towards her and Natasha pushes him towards Bucky, who says nothing as lets Tony sleep on him, quietly sucking away on his Capri Sun.

**

_Stark and Widow: Lovers or Pranksters of the Century?_

 

_By Kita Kyung-Joo_

 

_The world was swept away by the very glamorous and beautiful relationship of one Tony Stark (Iron Man) and Natasha Romanova (Black Widow), but every good thing must and has come to an end. But what is there to mourn when all of it, apparently, is a joke?_

 

 _Romanova and Stark took to the streets with their bombastic and much more dramatic rendition of Rent’s Take Me or Leave Me, which took the Internet by storm—the_ _clips_ _that has been uploaded on YouTube are more than a million views each— and it’s showing no signs of slowing down, let alone stopping._

 

 _Although the pair has not given any comments as to the real nature of their relationship, many has agreed that the whole relationship was a_ _joking farce_ _in the expense of the faithful followers of the Avengers._

 

Sam chortles at the article, thrusting it toward Natasha’s face, who shakes her head as she takes the phone into her hands, her cereal spoon hanging off of her mouth.

 

She raises an eyebrow as she puts down her spoon, “Hey, hey,” she waves towards Bucky, “ _Maybe it’s time for Natasha to return to the person her heart belongs to— James Buchanan Barnes_.”

 

“Gold!” Sam wheezes, hugging his stomach, “ _Comedic gold_!”

 

Pepper snorts from the doorway, tucked between her arm and her side a Stark tablet, and a pretty smile on her face. She’s been out and about since four a.m. today, so Natasha reaches out for her girlfriend and waits for Pepper to stride on over to her.

 

Bucky snatches the phone from her hand and looks the article over, “No, your heart belongs to Kitchen Nightmares and gun oil.”

 

Pepper laughs, and it sounds like the best thing ever, “Sounds just about right,” she says happily. Natasha abandons her cereal completely to wrap her arms around the taller woman. Pepper puts down her tablet to hug Natasha right back.

 

Natasha flips Bucky off.

 

“Either way, it’s the hottest story right now, and it’s not hurting our stocks, so I’m not mad.” Pepper says as she tucks Natasha’s hair behind her ear, picking at the frayed collar of her huge sweater.

 

“Tony have fun?” Bucky asks from where he’s sitting, smiling down at the phone screen. Sam yells at him to give it back, but Bucky claims to be checking out some fanart about Natasha and Tony, and _that_ makes Natasha lift her head up and off Pepper’s stomach, scrambling towards the other man and taking a look, too. They’re pretty good, and plenty creative. She’d never think Tony could look that cute (actually she does) or be that flexible.

 

Pepper puts her hands on her hips, “Yes, he had fun. I told you guys he’d somehow incorporate _Rent_ into everyday life.”

 

“He loves it,” Natasha says off-handedly, reaching over to scroll further, reblogging one of Tony in Maureen’s dark maroon lipstick, patent leather jeans, knee high boots, and tight tank top, and Natasha in Joanne’s _Take Me or Leave Me_ get-up. She’d wear it. Maybe in black instead of beige, and with more cleavage. Pepper would like it, maybe. No, Pepper would definitely like it.

 

Why Sam has a tumblr account, no one asks.

 

They’re superheroes who spend most of their time in peril— they’re entitled to their own pastimes. And if her and Tony’s past time is breaking up via bursting into a showtune, then it’s no one else’s business but theirs.

 

Natasha sees on of her and Tony in BDSM haute couture, with Tony looking fetching in a spreader bar. Quaint. Pretty. “Send me that one.” Bucky unblinkingly does so.

 

Pepper only rolls her eyes, but Bucky tacks on, “And we love him, right? That’s why he gets away with so much shit.”

 

Sam wheezes out a laugh again, because he’s right.

 

**One: James Buchanan Barnes.**

 

“Shit, Mr. Stark is going to kill me,”

 

MJ crosses her legs as she swivels around the spinny chair, “I mean,” she motions to the whole half of the lab that’s covered in soot and foam from the fire extinguisher, “He’ll give you an A+ for effort.”

 

Peter grabs at his hair as he paces back and forth, “I don’t want to be killed by Tony Stark, he’ll get away with it.” he says under his breath, and MJ, of course, hears it, because she agrees with a hum, waving at a very agitated DUM-E.  

 

Peter stops, “You know what? Who am I kidding. I’d probably thank him for killing me or something,”

 

MJ snorts out a laugh, her shoulders shaking, “Same.”

 

“How do I hide this from him?” Peter mumbles under his breath again, because he’s really not looking forward to Mr. Stark’s face when he sees how much of a fuck-up Peter truly is. What’s worse is that he _set fire_ to Mr. Stark’s actual _actual_ workshop. And he’s having friends over, which is like one of the cardinal rules of Tony’s Workshop. He’s glad FRIDAY still hasn’t tattled on him, but there’s only so much she can do for Peter.

 

MJ’s only here because she learned about Mr. Stark’s obsession with _Rent_ and because she has a poorly disguised crush on Miss Pepper Potts, and Peter only lets her in here because if _not_ , then people would keep claiming he’s some sad virgin who spends his days locked up in a billionaire’s super secret dungeon, which doesn’t sound good, no matter how you twist it. So MJ’s here.

 

“You know I never thought Tony Stark had _this_ much privilege,” Ned says loudly as he walks inside the workshop, and Peter winces at his booming voice accompanied by the smell of garlic and pepperoni. MJ bolts out of her chair in a flurry of too big clothes from somewhere that isn’t Forever 21 and squeaky Converse, all but assaulting Ned for the pizza.

 

Ned smiles up at him, “They gave me three more boxes of pizza _for free_.” he says in a dreamy voice, handing one of those boxes to Peter, who’s still panicking about the huge burnt side of the workshop, and all the foam littered on Tony’s very delicate prototypes.

 

“EVE!” He screeches as he dives straight back into the fray, mind going a mile a minute—EVE is a bot helper he and Mr. Stark has been working on. Think a walking cooler for vaccines and first aid, but _more_. She’s like a floating Bruce Banner but without the hulking out or the constant need for calmness. Or the need for sleep. She’s perfect, and Mr. Stark thinks she could be deployed to ongoing wars and stuff, to help field doctors.

 

He doesn’t say it, but the idea came one night (why _was_ Peter there? The answer is: don’t sweat it) to Mr. Stark because Bucky Barnes (that’s the _Winter Soldier_ ) had a very bad memory lapse and he thought he was falling from that train again, and Peter couldn’t move then but he was just on the ground, clutching at his shoulder and crying out for anyone, his mom, Captain Rogers, some girl named Rebecca, and Mr. Stark couldn’t do anything.

 

There was a lot of crying on Mr. Barnes’ part and also on Peter’s part. It was very cathartic and emotionally taxing.

 

Mr. Stark made him promise to keep it in confidence, and Peter’s not good with keeping things in confidence, mind you, but it’s really not his to tell about, you know? His aunt raised him with manners and a very strong penchant for gossip.

 

Peter doesn’t care for the foam in the face right now, just locating EVE. Maybe he should ask FRIDAY.

 

“Hey, Fry?” he asks as he wades through crap and burnt shit.

 

FRIDAY’s lilt fills the room, “Yes, spider boy?”

 

“Don’t call me that. So, in theory, if I lost or damaged something with a high clearance, like, say, _EVE_ … will you tell on me?”

 

A long pause passes, and MJ wags her finger and smiles around a pizza, and Ned just looks confused but also happy because he has pizza, and because he’s not the one Mr. Stark will flay alive if he learned that Peter damaged EVE.

 

“If that happened,” FRIDAY chimes, and Peter’s heartbeat skyrockets, “I will have to tell Boss.”

 

Peter wants to faint. He really does. Ned, catch him if he swoons from all the stress on his poor body.

 

“But,” FRIDAY tacks on quickly, as if she’s telling him a secret, “What I don’t know, Boss doesn’t have to know.”

 

There’s something in Asimov’s three rules of robotics, that they may or may not be breaking, he’s not very sure, he’s really not into literature all that much, not like MJ. But he’ll take it.

 

“Okay,” Peter hums, rubbing at the soot on his face. Mr. Stark won’t be home for two more days. He can totally find EVE and clean up the workshop by then. Yeah, it’s not like both of those, he can’t do in two days. “That’s cool.”

 

“Cool.” FRIDAY chirps back, and then quiets down.

 

And from then on out, _PROJECT: Find EVE_ started.

 

The doors whizz open and Peter, Ned, and MJ’s heads swivel up to find Bucky Barnes walking in with just sweatpants around his hips and a towel slung over his shoulder, eyes trained onto the phone in his hand, “Babe, I heard there was pizza—” he stops mid-sentence as he takes in the wholeness of destruction and also, pizza, in Mr. Stark’s workshop, his eyes wide.

 

Bucky Barnes’ blue eyes rove over every inch of soot-covered square area of the workshop, from the slightly burnt blueprints to DUM-E, who is screeching around like a plucked chicken, and Peter might have blown up one of the Audis, honestly, he’s not sure anymore.

 

His mind is screeching, _they’re together?!_ , but his legs are barreling towards Bucky Barnes, hoping he won’t choke him because Peter ruined Mr. Stark’s workshop. Peter put his hands on his hips and smiles widely, because he can totally pretend that there’s nothing wrong with this whole scenario.

 

Ned drops the pizza.

 

MJ chortles.

 

Bucky Barnes shakes his head, “You’re fucked to hell, kid.”

 

Peter might have to change _Project: Find EVE_ to _Project: Keep Bucky Barnes from Tattling To Mr. Stark While You Find EVE_.

 

**

 

“Run that by me again, kid.”

 

If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say that today, he’d get his one true wish of dying, but only brutally and in the hands of Mr. Stark’s _boyfriend_ , Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier. The _Winter Soldier_ will kill him because Peter fucked up Mr. Stark’s shit. This will make for a good story to tell in frat parties, if he got out of this alive.

 

“So, um,” Peter taps his fingers on his knees, “Um.”

 

“He tango’ed with a weaponised vinegar volcano, miscalculated like the disappointment Tony Stark _doesn’t_ think he is, and then set fire to the whole half of your sweetheart, Tony Stark’s, laboratory,” MJ drawls from where she’s half-leaning on Ned, her legs crossed and her foot jiggling in the air.

 

Peter looks down at his knees, picking at the frayed edges of the rips of his jeans. “It’s a workshop, not a lab,” he murmurs indignantly, and tacks on, even more quietly, “And it’s not a weaponised vinegar volcano, it’s a new compound for my web slinger.”

 

MJ waves him off with the pizza in her hand.

 

Bucky Barnes pinches the bridge of his nose. The only thing that’s really sad about this is that he put on a shirt, Peter thinks balefully. If he didn’t, then at least, Peter would have a good time while he’s being stabbed to death by the Winter Soldier. Sorry, Mr. Stark. You have a hot boyfriend with eight-pack abs.

 

A groan makes it past Bucky Barnes’ lips. “I wish I still had _The Chair_ ,” he murmurs angrily, “I’m no good at keeping secrets from Tony.”

 

He leans back into the seat, his legs splayed out in front of him. Peter looks at Ned, who is pursing his lips so tight he looks like he’s fighting the urge to shriek in agony.

 

Peter blinks. _The Chair_? Isn’t that that thing Captain America wants the Avengers to never ever speak about around Bucky Barnes? Torture device, no good. And the _Winter Soldier,_ super spy assassin extraordinaire, _bad_ at keeping secrets? What episode of X-Files is this?

 

“Fine,” Bucky Barnes says after a long pause, running his fingers through his beard, and Peter finds it _surprising_ that for a spy like Mr. Barnes, he’s showing so much movement that lets Peter know how he feels, so unlike Ms. Natasha. “I’ll keep your secret. _Fuck_. He’s coming home, what? Tomorrow afternoon?” He looks to the side and murmurs, “I can keep a secret that long. Right.”

 

“Excuse me, _come again_?” Peter asks shrilly, his thought processes stalling and sputtering to a stop.  

 

MJ, because she’s a bitch, laughs from where she’s comfortably draped over Ned.

 

Apparently, Mr. Stark isn’t coming home two days from now, but _tomorrow_. At this point, Peter wishes the Winter Soldier ends him. Immediately, with as little pain as possible, if that’s possible.

 

Ned puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. MJ even looks contrite, because Peter’s going to die either way.

 

“Aw, kid,” Bucky Barnes says sadly, pitiful towards Peter, “Fuck. I’ll fuckin’ help you, then. What do you need me to do?”

 

Peter perks up at that, eyes flicking up to Mr. Barnes, who groans again, looking away from him. He shakes his head and then lets it drop into his hand, mumbling something Peter can’t hear. All he really cares about right now is that Bucky Barnes, the _Winter Soldier_ (Mr. Stark’s boyfriend?) is fighting in his corner. Well, there’s no actual fight that’s going on, but still.

 

He profusely thanks the older man, who looks guilty to even be conspiring against Mr. Stark, which, yeah, Peter’s guilty, too, but he’s not looking forward to Mr. Stark looking at him disappointedly. The day that _that_ happens, Peter will either die or cry himself into death by dehydration.

 

The plan is this—in retrospect, maybe he should have been found out by Captain America, because both he and Bucky Barnes is really bad at making plans— Peter cleans, looks for EVE, all the while Mr. Barnes is distracting Mr. Stark. For a very long time. Think half a day, or even a whole day. He’s very confident in Mr. Barnes’ abilities to create a distraction. He was, like, a super well known assassin for years, right? It’s in his DNA or something.

 

MJ and Ned will help him clean, and there’s the bots, so it’ll be easy to clean up. Half of the fucking workshop. The real problem here is finding EVE— since she’s a new patent, she’s not officially tagged by Mr. Stark right now, because she’s, for all intents and purposes, Peter’s project, even if it’s Mr. Stark’s brainchild, what with it being influenced by _his boyfriend_ , Greatest Assassin and Accomplice to walk the earth. Maybe if he had her tagged, then he wouldn’t be having a panic attack about it right now.

 

“I don’t even hang out with _Tony_ outside the workshop. I’m so fuckin’ awkward about it,” Mr. Barnes complains for the nth time, and MJ, fit to burst from listening to Mr. Barnes bitch for over half an hour, sits up and points at Mr. Barnes. Ned shoots Mr. Barnes a look and shrugs, because he’s in for it now.

 

“You,” she hisses, because she’s fed up, “Will take Mr. Stark out on a _great_ date so he won’t kill my best friend here—”

 

Peter gasps, “I’m your _best friend_?”

 

At the same time as Bucky Barnes shrills, “ _Date_?”

 

“—you’ll wine and dine him. Then we’ll do the rest. You’re getting the very long stick out of this draw, Sergeant Barnes. Make it count.”

 

His face clouds over, and Peter is is half-sure he’s about to stick his whole arm through MJ’s stomach or something, but instead, he nods a few times, licking his lips, as if he was deciding on something. Maybe where to take Mr. Stark?

 

Peter pats his shoulder, “He likes feeding ducks and street hot dogs. But you know that.” He throws him a double thumbs up and then he’s gone, but not before exchanging numbers with Peter.

 

He looks at Mr. Barnes’ retreating back and wonders if he uploaded the voice module into EVE. Apparently, he was right when he thought Mr. Barnes _did_ have a thing with Mr. Stark.

 

**

Ned and MJ shows up in booty shorts, crop tops, and matching bright yellow flip flops. In other words, they look like they’re ready to clean and get some tips while they’re on it.

 

MJ smiles at him like she pities him, “Don’t worry, we brought you some booty shorts, too.”

 

Peter groans and Ned hands him a nondescript paper bag, and sure enough, when he peers into it, it’s booty shorts and a _BROOKLYN_ crop top, so they’re all matching. He resigns himself to his fate, because as usual, MJ is right— he _doesn’t_ want to spend half of his day in jeans, cleaning and getting wet.

 

She’s commandeering Butterfingers over to the stacks of singed paper, asking her (very politely) to dispose of them. Ned’s already hooked up the hose to the very convenient tap by the wall where Peter exploded his project.

 

Peter strips then and there, because they’re practically his siblings and none of them care enough to actually pay attention to his tighty whiteys.

 

“Pe- _ter_!” MJ hollers, “Shove that shit over your fat ass and start cleaning!”

 

So his day starts.

 

**

Maria Hill is a very punctual woman who has a penchant for appearing at very surprising locations with barely any sound. This is why Natasha and her used to date.

 

Which is why she’s got the front row seat to Bucky Barnes fumbling with his jacket zipper, toeing the concrete floor of the hangar to the landing bay Stark forced Fury to put after they needed him immediately while he was mid-flight. Which is always— Fury doesn’t like to admit that they need Stark as much as they do.

 

“Mr. Barnes,”

 

“Uh, Agent Hill. Good morning.”

 

She looks at him, then down to his feet, to his fidgeting hands. “Get him flowers. He tells no one, but he loves peonies.” She pauses. “The red ones.”

 

“He does?” Barnes holds her gaze and smiles brilliantly, and she can see why people are so keen to fall over at his feet. It’s a wonder why Stark hasn't, though. It’s pretty well known that he’s got a particular weakness for pretty smiles and broad shoulders. Or thick thighs, depends on who you ask. If it’s Steve, then it’s both.

 

Maria smiles right back and then takes a step backwards. “He’ll be here in two hours. Get your man some flowers.”

 

And then he struts away in that way of his that makes people step aside to either cower or watch him with ill-disguised awe, and Maria checks her watch. If she hustles Fury up a little bit, she can watch Barnes woo Stark, and then she’ll win the betting pool.

 

**

 

Tony Stark shows up thirty minutes early and Bucky Barnes whisks him away before Maria could clock both of them. She still called it, though. The grape vines (baby agents who don’t know the meaning of subtlety) tell her that Barnes got yellow roses and red peonies.

 

**

Natasha is being spoon fed pudding. She’s also in a bright blue wig and she’s got blue contact lenses on, so it’s not really _her_ , and Pepper’s right beside her, in a long brown wig that’s swept up into a messy bun, and wide cat eye sunglasses, legs thrown over Natasha’s lap right in the middle of Central Park at eleven in the morning, feeding her pudding.

 

This is the only way they can even go on dates without telling the whole world they’re in a relationship—they already agreed that they’re not going to go public with their relationship; a spy for the Avengers and a CEO of a Fortune 500 company? Yeah, tough luck. At least, they’re not coming out until they’ve been married for two years with one of them pregnant or something.

 

Natasha’s never been one for… love. In general.

 

She doesn’t like thinking about it, but she owes everything she has now to that fucked up perspective she had of Tony Stark, and to Tony Stark, who didn’t just take her fucked up _Tony Stark; not recommended,_ but rather crumpled it up and shoved it back up her ass. She owes Tony the _world_.

 

He gave her family when no one would even look at her twice. She’d been wrong before, but not like with Tony Stark. She’s glad she was wrong, though. Because if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t end up with an Amazon goddess for a girlfriend, and a family that won’t quit.

 

That’s why she’s spying on Tony right now.

 

“Tony looks tired,” Pepper says in fluent French, for consistency’s sake, as she spoons some pudding into her own mouth, “I can see his eyebags from here.”

 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Natasha replies right back, turning her head to press a kiss to Pepper’s chocolate pudding stained lips.

 

She looks over to where Tony is gesticulating wildly, his hands cutting through the air as he recounts something, his eyes bright but tired, and Bucky leaning on a railing, his ankles crossed in front of him as he listens with barely concealed rapture. She’s never seen that look on his face before— then again, she got to know him when she was a child, struggling to survive, and him, barely able to decide to breathe or not. But it’s a beautiful look on his face, nonetheless. There’s a bouquet of flowers in Bucky’s hands, poorly concealed behind him. Peonies, it seems like.

 

Then, after a minute or two, Barnes pulls out a small bag of duck feed, and Natasha chuckles as Tony absolutely gapes at it, clapping like a happy seal and all but snatching it from Bucky’s hands. People are starting to pay attention to them, and Natasha was about to feel bad, but then Bucky sheds off his leather jacket with the hood, and then forces Tony to put it on, the hood overlapping the smaller man’s eyes. It looks bunchy over Tony’s suit jacket, but Bucky only smiles proudly and produces a baseball cap out of nowhere, shoving it onto his own head.

 

“They’re moving,” Natasha whispers to Pepper, who gracefully lifts her legs off of Natasha’s lap, standing, and disposing of the pudding cup in one smooth move.

 

She reaches out and Natasha takes her hand, both of them following Tony and Bucky leisurely. Pepper takes to espionage like a duck to water— in some other life, she’s right beside Natasha in the Red Room, and Natasha’s sure she’ll love her then, too.

 

She should feel bad for following them like this. It’s a stalker-ish and very bad thing to do, but Pepper’s right here with her, and she’s twenty percent of Natasha’s impulse control. Sue them because they want to keep their eye on their not so baby _baby_.

 

Natasha knows Pepper holds Tony and duck feeding high in her heart, so this is kind of her break from everything work related. It’s genius. They’re killing two birds with one stone. If Bucky finds them out (which he won’t, because a spy and a CEO is better than one) then he might throw a fit and Natasha’s going to be dealing with two weeks of hunky has-been assassin with a perpetual cloud over his head trying to passive-aggressively kill her, which _has_ happened at least twice in this fiscal year alone.

 

Pepper tugs at Natasha’s sleeve, “He’s giving Tony the flowers, oh my _god_.”

 

Natasha looks up while she tucks a blue lock of hair behind her ear, and sure enough, Tony is cradling the bouquet like it were a baby, mouth moving a mile a minute as his eyebrows slowly met in the middle, and the next thing the three of them know, Tony is chucking the bouquet into the water and running away in his chunky leather jacket over suit ensemble, and Bucky is watching him run away, his mouth hanging open.

 

People are taking pictures.

 

Natasha breaks her arm off Pepper’s and dashes towards the railing, where Bucky is slowly slumping against, his shoulders curling forward, as if he wanted to hide from everyone.

 

Newsflash, he’s too huge to do that.

 

“Barnes,” she snaps, and Bucky’s eyes doesn’t find hers until after she snaps her fingers in front of his face, and Pepper is shooing off the people watching, looking imposing and very tall in her casual sling-backs.

 

His eyes are hazy and gun-metal grey, “Huh…?” he slurs.

 

“We can’t leave you for one goddamn minute,” Natasha mumbles under her breath, seizing Bucky by the arm with all the intent and purpose of helping him up and back into the tower, but he slaps her hand away, and the next thing Natasha knows, he’s looming over her, irises so dilated they may as well be black, his lips pulled so tight they were barely lines on his face.

 

Natasha doesn’t think, she just dives for Pepper and all but throws her clear across the road, where she’s safe, before the Soldier takes her by her wig and rips it off her head, probably thinking it was her real hair. _Ah, spirit gum._

 

He murmurs something in Russian, and Natasha ducks under his hands again, the metal catching a few strands of her hair. One day, she’ll shave all of this shit off. One day.

 

He mumbles it again, eyes turning towards Natasha, and they’re so sad, so confused, like a child being left at a bus stop, or like a little girl wanting ballet lessons and getting her ankles broken because she didn’t kick right, and Natasha’s heart palpitates.

 

 _“He left me_.” Barnes says in Russian, more growly now. He turns to the tower and starts stalking towards it, and Natasha _knows_ he won’t hurt Tony—but she can never be too sure. She makes quick movements with her hands and Pepper picks it up quickly, dialling Tony, from where he’s probably in the tower.

 

Natasha stands up and before she runs for the tower, she casts a look over into the water, where the ducks are pecking at the flowers Tony threw away.

 

An almost hysterical laugh leaves her mouth.

 

“ _Y_ _ellow carnations_. Oh, Barnes.”  

 

**

“Cool,” Peter mumbles as he wipes off the soot from his face, “This is really cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

 

MJ groans and pats her sore thighs from where she’s been squatting almost all day, “Kindly shut up, Parker. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you didn’t weaponise a vinegar volcano.”

 

Ned just groans as he dunked a dirty rag into a bucket of water with needless violence, glaring at the floor all the while. The rest of the equipment, they’ve cleaned— they’re just, maybe, twenty percent away from cleaning the whole floor, then it’s just a last sweep of everything and then they’re through. He’s been ducking out every now and again to find EVE, but he’s got no such luck. Maybe the workshop being clean will make Mr. Stark happy and then he’ll treat them to ice cream and then forget all about it.

 

He’s always been an optimistic person. One has to be, when one is friends with MJ Watson.

 

“After this, you’re going to buy _me_ a whole pizza and a milkshake,” Ned grumbles before standing up, rubbing at his head and then picking up his bucket.

 

“And a massage. I want all the fucking massages.” He sends Peter a pointed look and then trudges on over to the other side of the workshop, cleaning violently. MJ is slumped on the ground, her own rag slung over her thin shoulder. Her hair’s more frazzled than he’s even seen it, tucked in a bun that’s neater than the kind of buns she usually puts it in.

 

 _EVE ISN’T_ **_ANYWHERE_** _._

 

He’s been searching _everywhere_. He’s checked the feeds for her, if she’s floating somewhere, or being held hostage, or _worse_ , being cannibalised for parts. _Cannibalised_. Oh, Mr. Stark will definitely skin him alive if that happens. He’s sic Bucky Barnes on Peter and Peter will have to run away to the Philippines or something. It’s no big deal, he’s great at stowing away— it’s how he got into this whole Stark Internship thing anyways.

 

MJ stands up and bends over backwards, her spine cracking loudly and creepily, as if she’s rearranging her whole skeletal system, and maybe she is, seriously, who knows?

 

“Okay,” she hums happily, and she’s not even that _tired_ when all they’ve been doing is clean and clean _all day_? “Just a little more and we’re done!”

 

“You’re too happy,” Peter says suspiciously, because she _is_ too happy. Granted, she won’t be the one who’s going to get killed, but still. She could at least pretend that she’s sad about what’s happening. Ned’s sad for him, if Peter had to gander. Ned’s a very emotionally adept guy. MJ’s not the same. She has no room in her heart for compassion, because that’s a humanly endeavour. Peter’s quoting that from her, by the way. No slander here.

 

“How couldn’t I be? I’m going to spend the rest of the night in that pool upstairs,” she grins.

 

“But…” Peter starts lamely, “But Mr. Stark…”

 

“Man, I love you,” MJ says as she crooks up the side of her lips, “but sometimes _I_ have motives, too.”

 

“Uh?” Peter says dumbly, and totally not like the protégé Tony Stark makes him out to be.

 

Ned groans.

 

MJ smirks. “I told Tony,”

 

Peter shrieks, “You call him _Tony_?” followed by, “ _What_?”

 

Before MJ could answer, FRIDAY’s voice (Irish, like Captain America) filters through the air, announcing that they’re going on lockdown. The lights dim down and red filters through the exit passages, and somehow, Peter feels very exposed in his booty shorts, because this isn’t the proper attire to be wearing when an emergency is happening.

 

“Fry?” Peter asks, as the same time MJ is groaning and flopping down on the floor, continuing to clean. Ned looks at him from where he’s standing.

 

“Mr. Barnes is having an episode and is inside the Tower. En route to the workshop. Boss and the Black Widow are also incoming— Boss says that this is the perfect time to test out EVE.”

 

Peter’s eyes widen. The doors are probably bolted shut and they’ll be well protected even if Tony didn’t come on time, but _seriously_?

 

“Ah,” he pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, “Well, fuck.”

 

“Right.” FRIDAY says blankly. “If you would proceed to the emergency tunnels.”

 

Ned shuffles on over and MJ brings her bucket with her.

 

**

Natasha runs as fast as she can, and if Bucky were tired, she’s probably outrun him, but he’s not, so she’s barely keeping up as it is. Steve and the rest of the gang are out, but Pepper’s already handling that, keeping the PR on the flower disaster earlier; surely, Bucky doesn’t want that out and about into the world, right?

 

FRIDAY’s telling her Tony’s on his way, too, and Natasha wants to just sit down and sleep, because this wasn’t how she imagined her date day to go. She was thinking she’d spy on Tony with Pepper, maybe get some cute pictures, and then she could test out the new toy she got on Pepper when night comes. But _no_ , because Tony’s a drama queen and Bucky’s an idiot who doesn’t know how to Google everything that he’s not sure about. Like flower languages.

 

 _Yellow carnations_ , really?

 

‘Rejection’ and ‘you have disappointed me’ doesn’t give out high points when you’re wooing Tony Stark. It backfires, is what it does. And it did, and now they have a very sad and highly destructive Winter Soldier gunning for Tony Stark, probably to squeeze the life out of him.

 

“FRIDAY, are the kids from the workshop out?”

 

“Yes, Ms. Romanova. The other levels are locked down, too.”

 

Natasha pinches her nose as she jumps up four steps at once, “What’s Tony planning?”

 

“You know what, Ms. Romanova?” FRIDAY says in a seemingly tired voice. And if Natasha tried hard enough, she could hear the shrug in the way she says it—she’s becoming more and more like JARVIS each day— “I’m not so sure either.”

 

**

_EVE protocol: Activated._

 

Import. Booting.

Import. Utilising flight stabilisers.

Import. PRIVATE: BUCKY PROTOCOL.

Import.PUBLIC:  FRIDAY protocol initiating.

Import. PUBLIC: _FRIDAY UNIT: EVE?_

Import. PUBLIC: EVE UNIT: _Hello, FRIDAY._

 

Import. PRIVATE: Display MAP.

Import. PUBLIC:   _FRIDAY UNIT_ : _Where are you?_

Import. PUBLIC:   _EVE UNIT_ : With Creation Unit.

Import. PUBLIC: CREATION UNIT (HIGH PRIORITY): _Hey, there, baby girl. Ready for your first job?_

 

Processing PRIORITY CLASS FOR: FIRST JOB.

_Processing. Processing._

 

Import. PUBLIC: CREATION UNIT (HIGH PRIORITY): _You find our Bucky and help him out_.

 

_PROCESSING._

 

_MISSION: FIND OUR BUCKY._

 

Import: PUBLIC: CREATION UNIT (HIGH PRIORITY): _Good girl_ . _Race you?_

 

Import: PRIVATE: _EVE UNIT IS A GOOD GIRL!_

 

Import: PUBLIC: _EVE UNIT: Challenge accepted._

 

**

 

Peter shouldn’t be here. Honestly. But he really wants to know how EVE works, so he’s here. Chilling behind a sofa in his booty shorts. MJ and Ned are being escorted upstairs, but here he is. Maybe he has a death sentence, who knows?

 

The doors hiss and Peter clutches at the back of the sofa, heart thundering under his ribcage. _Oh, sweet baby Jesus._

 

Deep breathing makes itself known, and Peter just _knows_ it’s the Winter Soldier.

 

 _Okay, okay, okay. If you just shut the fuck up and don’t make any noises, he totally won’t grip you by the neck and impale you on DUM-E._ Sounds so fucking easy, doesn’t it? Jesus, where’s Mr. Stark?

 

He knows he only has himself to blame, really— FRIDAY might not be talking just so she won’t give away Peter’s position, but he just _knows_ she’s seething, as much as an AI could seethe, that is. Which, considering how much of a fucking bitch FRIDAY is, is a _lot_. If he makes it out here alive, she’ll make his life a living hell, he just knows it. He should have booked it when FRIDAY told him to; staying here is a mistake, but scientists never got shit done by keeping safe, did they?

 

That sounds like something Mr. Stark would say, Peter hysterically thinks. That usually means it’s bad life advice. But Peter’s growing into his shell (even MJ says so), so he’s letting a bit of that teenage rebellion out to air. He just really hopes the Winter Soldier won’t kill him or something. For all that he talks about wanting to die, he really, really doesn’t mean it.

 

Peter doesn’t know where the Soldier is— that’s a _fact_. He’s long since lost where the hell the dude is, and Peter’s just counting on his spidey senses to tell him that Big, Bad, and Scary with Knives (this is trademarked by Mr. Stark, by the way. He’ll sue anyone who uses it without his permission) is right behind him.

 

He puts both his hands over his mouth and tries to keep his caveman breathing to a minimum, but imagine being in the same room as a very homicidal assassin. Go on, imagine it. Fucking terrifying, right?

 

Scraping of metal against metal makes Peter slide further down and into the sofa, wishing he’d just tagged along with Ned and MJ, because then, he’d have a chance at living, and they could all go to a spa or something. Cleaning all day made him have a crick in his shoulder.

 

The sofa he’s hiding behind suddenly flies, and Peter squeaks, bolting for the doors immediately, wishing he’d had the hindsight to tell his subconscious, his impulsive, useless subconscious to fuck right off. But now he’s done _this_ , and he’s gotta commit. And by commit, he means to run away, because he’s not going up against the Winter Soldier while wearing a crop top and some booty shorts. He came here to clean and not get his ass whupped by Mr. Stark for losing EVE.

 

A hand closes in on his shirt and tugs him back, and Peter’s breath leaves his lungs. It’s so weird for him not to _feel_ where the Winter Soldier is coming from, but he twists just in time to barely get away, but the Winter Soldier’s hand closes around the neck of his shirt and tugs him back up.

 

“ **Кто ты**?” He asks brusquely.

 

_This is it. Oh my god, this is it. I’m going to die in a crop top._

 

The sound of rubber soles squeaking made the Winter Soldier stop, though, and suddenly, Mr. Stark is there, EVE hovering just a few feet in front of him.

 

Peter gasps to himself. EVE looks _beautiful_. She’s all sleek lines and bright blue ovals for eyes, a small dot of arc reactor blue where a person’s heart should be. She’s floating, too. Peter didn’t expect his formula for flight stabilisers would work so well on her. It’s like she’s gliding.

 

“Hands off the spider kid, Mr. Freeze.” Mr. Stark demands.

 

The Winter Soldier drops Peter, and Peter gasps, before turning on his hands and knees and standing up. He’s not going to leave Mr. Stark alone, here. He may be scared to face the Winter Soldier alone, but Peter will be damned if Mr. Stark gets hurt because Peter was a coward.

 

He starts stalking towards Mr. Stark, and Peter’s senses are going haywire. But he knows Mr. Stark’s got this. He’s got EVE, a trauma bot, a field medic bot. She’s going to do well and save all of them.

 

EVE makes a noise as she swivels right in front of the Winter Soldier, beeps, and begins muttering in Russian. The Winter Soldier falters in his steps and looks at the robot, his eyes wide.

 

“ **Охуе́ть** ,” he breathes out, his metal hand reaching towards the little robot. “ _Eve_?”

 

EVE shrills, and Mr. Stark lets out a soft sigh and smiles. “ _Eve_.” the robot reassures.

 

The Winter Soldier turns to Mr. Stark, and Peter can’t see, but he can _hear_ , especially when the man’s voice wavers as he says, “You made me _Eve_?” in a very accented voice. Not a Brooklyn accent but a very thick Russian one that makes Peter reel back.

 

He sounds _so cute_.

 

“Of course I did, dummy,” Mr. Stark says, and Peter looks up at the cameras, wondering if FRIDAY is recording all of this for later perusal. She probably is. For something that’s semi-omniscient and made of wires, she’s very nostalgic.

 

“Bucky,” EVE chirps, “Bucky, you are _home_.” Her eyes glow a pretty blue colour, and then it changes to a vibrant orange one, like amber. The Winter Soldier hesitantly lets his hand hover until EVE sways towards it.

 

Peter watches Mr. Stark as he stands back and wrings his hands together, carefully not calling the Iron Man armour to heel, but here, Mr. Stark is in his most optimum. Peter’s sure he can take care of all of them should push come to shove. Not that Peter wants it to come to shove, but the last time he and the Winter Soldier fought, Peter ended up with a strained back muscle, and that’s not something he wants a repeat performance of.

 

Above all,  EVE was made with trauma victims in mind. The children that have witnessed war, the soldiers that have come home devastated and dark. While _Peter_ wanted EVE to be deployed beside field medics for a quicker, more efficient medical service in the middle of a war zone, Mr. Stark believed she could be useful in therapy, as constant, undying and unwavering companions, especially to children.

 

Being a semi-sentient trauma ‘bot that worked half like Bruce Banner and half like the BARF, EVE is a work of art.

 

Peter didn’t know Mr. Stark made EVE with _Bucky Barnes_ in mind. At least, not to this extent.

Mr. Stark does love him, doesn’t he? Peter’s heart clenches at that. That’s the sweetest fucking thing _ever_.

 

EVE beeps, “Bucky?” she intones, needlessly tender and very in tune with her charge’s emotions. Peter is at awe at how she immediately picks up on human traumatic cues. She’s working like a fucking dream.  

 

Bucky—is it still the Winter Soldier?—hangs his head in between his shoulders and Peter’s senses dull down from _THREAT!_ to _oh, it’s just a sad man!_ , but this isn’t a situation he’s supposed to shoulder his way into. He’s got more tact than that. EVE hovers near the man, and unbidden, she puts out her palm to rest against his, and maybe Peter is crying, he’s not so sure.

 

He looks at a CCTV and the pale red light blinks three times. Yeah, FRIDAY is recording this.

 

“You like her?” Mr. Stark says hesitantly, like he isn’t sure if this man quietly crying in front of him _liked_ Mr. Stark’s totally romantic present for him, and Peter wants to whack him upside the head.

 

What kind of stupid fucking question is that?

 

Bucky Barnes finally resurfaces when he looks up, eyes bright blue and nose red as he says, a grin replacing the murder frown he had on. “Yeah, she’s pretty swell.”

 

EVE beeps merrily, happy that she’s calmed down a potentially (very) dangerous (murderous) ex-assassin from killing all of them in various, completely creative ways. Mr. Stark sways forward as if he was doubting himself, which Peter doesn’t even think was possible, and puts his hand on EVE’s head, patting her like a proud dad, his eyes soft as he smiles gently up at Bucky Barnes.

 

It’s only by virtue of Peter’s enhanced eyesight that he sees the way Bucky Barnes’ hand twitches, like he wanted to touch Mr. Stark, too.

 

He slinks out, and by the time he’s gotten into the lobby headed straight to the pool MJ and Ned’s surely conquered, he asks FRIDAY if she could store the footage in a place where Mr. Stark couldn’t delete it, even if he didn’t want to in the first place. FRIDAY sounds weepy as she says yes.

 

One thing that Mr. Stark is really good at, Peter thinks as he happily watches the darkened windows light up, signalling the end of a lockdown, is that Mr. Stark _knows_ emotion. He takes your hurt and tries to understand it, he makes you feel _perfectly_ human for feeling these kind of things.

 

And Peter concludes with this: _Mr. Stark and Bucky Barnes are a match made in Hell, on their way to Heaven._

 

**One Time They Finally Got It Right:**

 

Tony giggles (he _giggles_ ) hysterically as Bucky wraps his hand around the jiggling doorknob, and maybe, in hindsight, they should have waited until they got home, but _still_. Bucky looks so good in that all black tux with the red bowtie, Jesus Christ. So what if it’s Pepper and Natasha’s engagement party? They’re not stealing anyone’s thunder by fucking in the coat closet.

 

Ever since they got together, it’s like they’re living a romcom or something.

 

(It doesn’t help that a least a hundred in Bucky’s Bucket List is related to chickflicks. Which is great, until he comes and says he wants to make out with him under the rain he asked Thor to make).

 

Bucky looks at him crossly and thins his lips, and Tony snorts, shoving his hands over his mouth. This makes his weight shift considerably, and Bucky makes a noise as he grips Tony’s ass harder to keep him from falling (or slipping off his dick), shaking his head resolutely.

 

The doorknob jiggles again.

 

Sam’s voice pours through the oak door, “Man, my coat’s in there!” he whines. “Just hand me the coat with the lavender lining, then you can go right back to fucking.”

 

Tony couldn’t help it. Sam sounds so _defeated_. And that’s the man who, just a week ago, single handedly defeated that day’s homicidal fifty feet lizard-monkey hybrid. He doesn’t have the right to sound so sad when he’s a decorated hero, for fuck’s sake. Tony hasn’t even come yet, so he’s going to have to wait.

 

He curls his hands on the juncture of Bucky’s neck and clenches around his boyfriend’s dick as _Radio Ga Ga_ plays in the background, happy laughter and the sound of a slightly tipsy Natasha praising her fiancée muffled by the thin door to the coat room. Bucky groans as his head drops on top of Tony’s still clothed collarbones. They were too impatient to actually take off their clothes, so Bucky’s just whipped his dick out and Tony just slipped off his pants.

 

No harm, no foul. Just sex. Really, really risque sex.

 

The risk? Natasha cutting off both their dicks for fucking at her engagement party, and Pepper stabbing him in the eye for being tasteless assholes.

 

“Fuck, Nat’s gonna kill us,” Bucky groans as he fucks up into Tony, and Tony whines, throwing his head back as Bucky hits his prostate head-on. “Pep’s gonna kill us,”

 

That makes Tony laugh again as he undulates his body best he could, encouraging Bucky to move more. The door knob jiggles one last time and Sam sighs, his voice muddled as he walks away, saying, “I’m just gonna borrow Steve’s. That space heater of a motherfucker don’t need it anyways.”

 

Bucky kisses Tony’s neck as he finally lets go of the door knob, lifting Tony with both hands and bodily slamming him down on his cock, and Tony’s vision whites out a bit, biting down on a curse as Bucky begins fucking him in earnest, now that they’re not in the danger of being found out. Not that Tony’s ashamed of being caught with Bucky’s dick up his ass (if anything, it’s an honour and it’ll be peace of mind for Tony. The amount of women who come up to his boyfriend is _astounding_ ).

 

Speaking of which, “B-bucky,” he moans as Bucky wordlessly grunts through fucking him, and Tony knows he’s listening, because Bucky’s always listening, no matter what they’re doing, “you think we should come out?”

 

Bucky groans as he chases his orgasm in Tony’s warm tightness, “Not now, baby boy, try’na bust a nut here.”

 

“Th-then when, asshole?” Tony gasps as Bucky grips his ass tighter and for all that he… _loves_ Bucky, Bucky’s really the one with communication issues. Tony’s hitting the uglier side of his forties, okay? Bad communication is something he’s long since grown out of. Especially since his last bout with it resulted in Captain America and Tony’s now boyfriend almost killing him.

 

(They worked past that, by the way. With weepy, loving sex, and then mimosas in the morning).

 

(Actually, it was angry, animalistic sex, and then weepy, loving sex, and _then_ mimosas).

 

“After I come, you whiny bitch,” Bucky groans and bites under Tony’s jaw, planting a bruise there. His inflection is heated and loving, as it always is, and Tony’s eyes roll back as Bucky licks at the lobe of his ear, his thick cock pulsing hotly inside him with every upthrust.

 

Tony reaches down to wrap his hand around his weeping cock, because Bucky’s too preoccupied in keeping Tony safe in his arms, so Tony doesn’t begrudge him for not paying attention to his dick. He gives it a twist and swipes his thumb over the slit.

 

He looks back down at Bucky and licks at the sticky precome staining his thumb, and Bucky, with his wide, blown eyes, looks back at him, lust and love and something like resolute amazement sketched across his beautiful face.

 

Tony clenches around Bucky again, and the man closes his eyes, his hips stuttering as he comes inside Tony, and maybe it’s because it’s such a heated moment, because Tony could swear he could feel Bucky’s come inside him, or maybe it’s because, well, Tony’s romanticised having sex with Bucky so much so that he’s feeling things that he didn’t feel when he’d been fucked by people back when he hadn’t been with Bucky.

 

So he gasps, “Oh, that feels good,” and gives his own dick a few more pulls, before Bucky is swatting his hand away and putting Tony down on his feet, and he almost complains, but then Bucky is on his knees and swallowing Tony’s dick into his warm mouth, sucking almost harshly.

 

He forgets whatever he was going to bitch about all of a sudden.

 

Tony’s eyes widen as he feels Bucky’s come slide down his thighs, Bucky’s mouth tight and wet around his prick.

 

“Good idea,” Tony sighs, hand carding through Bucky’s hair, which was let down for the occasion. He thrusts into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky moans around him, the vibrations making Tony go wild.

 

On good days, Tony can come from Bucky fucking him alone (thank god for sensitive nerve endings!) but it’s always, always a great time when Bucky gives him a blow job.

 

Tony’s much too distracted by the mouth around his dick that he doesn’t notice Bucky’s metal fingers inching up and into his ass, pushing back the come that’s leaked out of him. _Huh_ , he thinks, a high-pitched moan breaking out of his mouth, _two birds with one stone_.

 

Bucky begins fucking him with those thick, metal fingers in earnest, and Tony’s never wanted to thank T’Challa more than he does now, because that man… God, T’Challa is God’s gift to mankind, especially Tony. Because if he hasn’t made that sexy ass fucking arm, then…

 

Well, maybe Tony would be coming in a different way, but now, Tony’s coming on Bucky’s metal fingers, so it’s really not that bad.

 

“ _Mm!_ ” Tony gasps, coming inside Bucky’s mouth, who just hums and swallows Tony’s load, looking up from underneath his lashes. Tony sleepily looks down and smiles, clenching around Bucky’s finger.

 

When Tony’s done, Bucky comes off his dick with a little lick and a _pop_ , his hand patting Tony’s ass, and saying, as he moves to stand, “Good job, team.”

 

Tony laughs and lazily raises his hand, “High five, bro.”

 

Bucky shakes his head and seizes Tony for a kiss, his arms wrapping around his waist and his leg coming in between Tony’s bare thighs.

 

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Tony says as he forcibly pulls away, “If we end up fucking again, Natasha’s going to find out and shame us both.”

 

The taller man rolls his eyes, “Who cares? I want more sex.” he whines like the huge brat that he secretly is, his Russian brogue slipping into his words. Tony finds it extremely sexy, but not now, when Pepper has access to knives.

 

“And I want to _not_ die. Also, there’s cake outside, you big pseudo-Russian baby,”

 

“Average pastry is nothing to the glory of being one with your ethereal form,”

 

“You’re from the forties, but ten points to that sentence.” Tony shakes his head as he maneauvers his way off Bucky’s leg, bending down to put on his pants.

 

Bucky’s shoulders drop and his head tilts back as he whines again. “But I wanna fuck!”

 

Tony pats his chest as he puts Bucky’s dick back into his pants, leaning up on his toes to kiss Bucky’s lips chastely. “We have all the time in the world to fuck _later_ , Buchanan.”

 

He opens the door and surreptitiously walks out, sliding into their table and pretending Bucky hadn’t boned him within an inch of his life as he sits down, Bucky’s come still slipping out of him. Thank God for briefs. And thank you, for his common sense, which apparently hasn’t abandoned him yet.

 

Bucky walks out a few minutes later, bowtie put back neatly, his hair tucked behind his ears. He winks at Tony before he goes to join Steve, who is talking to a man with brown, long-ish, curly hair, considerably smaller than him. Tony snorts. Steve’s got a type.

 

Tony steeples his hands underneath his chin as he watches Natasha swing Pepper around in a fast paced jig, singing loudly, and Tony’s never thought Natasha could be as rowdy as she is now, but Natasha’s not just a stoic spy who can kill you in  a thousand different ways; she’s a woman who likes trying on different wigs, _Blondie_ , and who’s fallen in love, simple as that.

 

“ _Call me!_ ” Natasha sings, and Pepper laughs, singing right back, “ _Call me!_ ”

 

“ _On the line, call me, call me any-anytime,_ ”  Debbie Harry croons loudly, and Tony finds himself singing along quietly, “ _Call me, oh love, when you're ready we can share the wine_.”

 

Natasha twirls in Pepper’s arms, and Tony finds himself smiling. He didn’t expect them to actually come out to announce their relationship like this, but he knows the feeling of wanting to shout how much you love someone and how much you want to spend your life with them.

 

As Al Green’s gentle voice comes pouring from the speakers, Natasha and Pepper pull away from each other, and Nat’s green eyes find his. She immediately makes her way, smirking as she holds out her hand.

 

“Dance, Mr. Stark?”

 

Tony grins right back, opening his mouth to decline.

 

“No one’s going to be jealous, right?” She asks cheekily, and Tony narrows his eyes at her, his lips curling into a smile. He shakes his head and takes her hand, letting himself be led onto the dancefloor.

 

“You know, you and Bucky aren’t as slick as you think you are,”

 

Tony snorts. “Tell that to my ass.”

 

Natasha’s nose crinkles as she sways gently with Tony, “I didn’t need to know that.” she says petulantly, “I _really_ didn’t need to know that.”

 

“Well, you and Pep didn’t have to leave that monster of a strap on in our bed but hey,”

 

Natasha smiles smugly but lets it go.

 

As the chorus rolls in, Natasha looks back up at Tony, “So, you and Barnes, huh?”

 

“Me and Barnes, yeah.”

 

“Pepper queued up _My Girl_. Barnes is heading our way.”

 

Tony blinks as Al Green’s voice fades away and Bucky swims into his vision, beautiful, still flushed from their little stunt in the coat room, smiling down at Natasha, who hands Tony off gracefully.

 

Bucky’s takes Tony’s hands and guides them up to rest on his broad shoulders, his own hands planting themselves gently on Tony’s hips.

 

“Hi there, baby-doll,” Bucky smirks, his blue eyes twinkling beautifully.

 

Tony licks his lips, snorting at his old man. “Hi,”

 

Bucky tips his head down as Tony tilts his head up, their noses brushing against each other.

 

“So, I got this fella that I’m stuck on.” He mutters in his thick, mixed Russian-Brooklyn brogue, which shouldn’t sound as sexy as it does, but it _does,_  and Tony feels heat curl up in his belly.

 

“Oh yeah?” Tony breathes gently against Bucky’s lips, feeling giddy as they danced in front of all of their friends (family, really).

 

Bucky hums, “Been tryna make a pass on ‘im all night.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that, old-timer.”

 

“Well, what would you say, then, smart-ass?”

 

Tony raises his eyebrows and Bucky relents, chuckling against his lips as he presses a chaste kiss there.

 

“You don’t need to make a pass on your _fella_ anymore, Buchanan.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

He doesn’t say anything, he just wraps his arms fully around Bucky’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss.

 

“ _I've got sunshine on a cloudy day, with my girl, my girl_ ,”

 

Tony grins as Bucky kisses him back with just as much enthusiasm. Someone hoots, and someone curses in Russian.

 

He doesn’t care much.

 

He doesn’t even get angry when a picture of them kissing makes it onto the _New York Times_ ’ front page, the headline: _Stark’s Winter Love_? boldly outlined on the front.

 

Bucky plants his chin on top of Tony’s riotous curls and huffs. “That’s it?” he says, unimpressed. He bends down to press a kiss to Tony’s warm neck. “Why does Natasha always get the best headlines?”

 

Tony grins as he opens the newpaper more, pointing at a certain part of the article.

 

“Look, it says we look cute together. I haven’t been called cute in twenty years.”

 

“Think again, cutie. I always call you cute.”

 

They laugh for a long while, and when their chuckles die down, Tony looks back down at the article.

 

“This is an insult to our relationship. Let’s fuck after a battle or something.”

 

Bucky sniffs snootily, “Right, right. We need to keep our street cred.”

 

That’s how Natasha finds them, sitting leisurely  in the middle of Bruce’s garden, cuddling as they watch the newspaper burn. She snaps a photo and sends it to Pepper.

 

Pepper replies with ten thumbs up and then promptly messages it to their group chat (they may be old but they do have group chats).

 

 _It's good to see Tony be so in love_ , Natasha thinks. 

**Author's Note:**

> (кто ты- who are u?)
> 
> just in case yall didnt read the 1st author's notes, bc i love conversing to people who like buckytony [@maroonedstark](https://twitter.com/maroonedstark)
> 
> also ! [this](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2526355/Vanessa-Hudgens-does-utmost-distract-boyfriend-Austin-Butler-phone.html) is what i based that natasha & tony bit from 
> 
> im thinking: i'm writing a few fics, and im still straightening out When Doves Cry, i wish i had a tumblr. this fic is like crack treated seriously. i just thought: hey, i want kinda cracky, happy buckytony content bc marvel is too much of a pussy to give me what i deserve. so...
> 
> also concrit is welcome ! let it be known that it might hurt my feelings but that's ok !


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